


Butterscotch

by o0katiekins0o



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Pseudo-Incest, Underage Kissing, Underage Smoking, kissing cousins, mild blasphemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 13:25:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3489872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o0katiekins0o/pseuds/o0katiekins0o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock disappears after the christening of his goddaughter, Molly looks for him and experiences some intense nostalgia. For 50 Reasons to Have Sherlolly Sex: #41 Because he looks like your super hot cousin and this is the closest it will ever get to being okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butterscotch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Twentyonedaydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twentyonedaydreams/gifts).



> The song is "Butterscotch" by Cocorosie. Like any song I use in a fic, I strongly urge you to listen to it. I'm gifting this work to twentyonedaydreams whom I promised I would tag if I ever developed the ovarian fortitude to delve into songfic territory. You should read her masterful use of the genre in her work "Playlists" which is what gave me the nudge I needed to stop dithering and go for it since this song was knocking around in my head begging for a Sherlolly adaptation.

_Why does butterscotch taste so good?_  
_And we can't have any_  
_But we must, we should_

A new baby meant a christening. A christening meant a trip to the north reconnect with family long estranged by distance, and a visit to her mother's old village parish to watch her new baby cousin, dressed in white lace, get her customary dip in a font. Then they would all retire to her aunt's to celebrate over a monstrous amount of food, no small amount of alcohol and many promises to get together again soon. There was an unspoken understanding that the promise would not be kept but they hugged and laughed. Vaguely familiar relatives cooed and petted her, saying again and again how much she'd grown, how much she looks like her mother, asking if she was doing well in school. It was all so very dull. 

He was refreshing, the boy in the back of the church, slumped so far in the pew behind her, legs outstretched, she could feel the toes of his sneakers thumping against her heels. He was a second cousin she'd seen at holiday gatherings. But in a family this size, and so far apart, they never spent much time together before now. He teases and jokes with her all day. But when her back is turned too long while she answers a string of tedious questions from an elderly relative he disappears. Molly asks one of her other cousins who points her in the direction of the wood.

She's twelve years old with runs in her new white tights under her Sunday dress with the floral print and the puffy sleeves. Sticks snap under the thick soles of her sturdy Mary Janes. The noises of a large family gathering become muffled as she puts more distance and trees between herself and her Aunt Aislinn's Yorkshire cottage. She pushes onward through thickets and brush, nettles snagging at her tights. Her mum will scold her for it later but they were already ruined from kneeling during the service anyway. 

She catches sight of him first. Leaning against a tree with his head tilted back against a bark in the most brooding fashion, exposing the pale length of his neck.

_It does things to her._

Her stomach flips and flutters and her breaths quicken. When she thinks about it she realizes that it shouldn't feel good, but it does, and she doesn't have the first idea of what to do about it.

All she knows when she sees him with his messy auburn curls tumbling over his forehead and his lips parting to puff out a stream of white smoke, is that she needs to be next to him. She presses her thighs together because, for whatever reason, that dulls the ache. Taking a deep breath, she gathers her courage to walk toward him. 

His eyes narrow in her direction when she finally musters the fortitude to take that first tentative step, crackling the rushes beneath her feet. He looks worried for a brief moment but the worry washes away when he recognizes that it's her and not an interloping adult. He exhales and straightens his back, looking at her with feigned apathy.        while affecting all the bravado available to a lanky fourteen year old Yorkshire boy.

Two years seems so much older, so much more mature, to her pre-teen understanding. Though she suspects, she doesn't have the life experience to know that, like her, he's just a kid and doesn't know any better than she does what to do about this electricity between them. He pretends not to care and that makes her want him all the more. 

After a long moment of looking silently at each other Molly finally breaks the awkward silence with a squeaky pronouncement of the obvious, "Those aren't good for you, ya know." It's the wrong thing, and she doesn't know it yet, but it's the first in a lifelong habit of saying the wrong thing when what she really wants needs no words at all. 

He rolls his eyes and takes another drag. "Are you going to tell on me, Molly?" He's smirking at her and she can't take her eyes of of his full lips as she walks toward him causing her to stumble, most ungracefully and catch herself on the same tree he's leaning against. He chuckles softly. 

"N-no." She stammers, but she straightens herself and squares her shoulders in that carefree way she's seen in films. "Unless you think I should." She's going for effortlessly sensual there but it doesn't quite come out that way in her breathless, shaky voice. The way she bites her lip and blushes doesn't add anything to the illusion either. 

He passes the cigarette in her direction and she eyes it warily. This is that peer pressure she's heard so much about but she can't bring herself to say no. She takes it from him and attempts an apathetic drag, the way she's seen done by her father in the back garden dozens of times before. As soon as the acrid cloud of smoke hits the back of her throat she chokes out an undignified string of hacking coughs and pounds lightly on her sternum with the heel of her hand.

He laughs _laughs!_ at her struggle which only makes her redouble her efforts. This time she does not inhale. She just holds the smoke in her mouth. It stings, but she feels like she's making a lot more progress toward that carefree and sensual front she'd been trying at.

She passes the cigarette back and leans against the tree next to him, crossing her arms over her chest. She swears she can feel her body humming with the tension of being near this boy she's sure is the most beautiful boy she's ever seen.

He's wearing black trousers and a button-up, but in youthful defiance he's left the top buttons undone and has a studded belt on. His scuffed denim jacket littered with buttons, featuring logos of bands she's never heard of, is a thing of rebellious glory.

She's enchanted and envious all at once. To be the "bad girl" like Sandy at the end of Grease is the secret desire of her quiet, mousy heart.

At twelve she can't imagine wanting anything more than to wear painted-on black lame' and stomp a cigarette out under her heel. To smile the smile of a woman who knows what her body does to men, and with all the confidence of a blond ingenue, toss back her hair saying, "Tell me about it, stud." But she can't, and she won't try. But she will take solace in the company of this boy, her cousin, whom she'd only met twice before. 

She only knows that when they smoke and kiss and grope clumsily against the tree it's the most perfect thing she thinks that could ever happen.

The spell is broken when the voices of their families shout their names and the sound of tromping feet through dead leaves breaks through the air. She looks around fearfully, certain they'd been caught out. He just smirks in his undeservedly self-assured way. After pulling her in for another soft kiss that goes on longer than it should, he pushes a hard candy into her hand to mask the scent of cigarette on her breath and darts off to meet the intruders halfway, giving her time to put herself back together. 

 _Why does sugar cane taste so good?_  
_Even though sugar can only do ya harm?_

Time will pass and she won't often think about the sloppy kissing and shameless pawing at her budding breasts that occurred between the two of them that day. Too much happened since then, her mother's unexpected death, her father's diagnosis. Her life becomes an endless balancing act.

She doesn't have the benefit of indulging the fantasies of her burgeoning sexuality when she's barely treading water as it is. She will see him again at her mother's funeral, but he won't look her in the eye. A few brief times at other family gatherings, but never alone.

They're old enough to know at this point they should never have a repeat of that afternoon. They both have enough good sense and self-possession to not even want to, but another vicious voice in her mind tells her it's because she's broken now.

Damaged goods. 

A girl without a mother to show her how to be a woman.

Years later she's the first to toss soil over her father's casket after it's lowered into the ground next to her mother's. Others come to pay respects and offer condolences.

He's there too, of course. Older, but not the specimen of wild defiance he once was. He's a bit doughy and wears glasses now. There's a round, cheerful ginger girl on his arm and even in her sleek black mourning attire Molly can see the outline of her swelling belly.

She's happy for him, truly, but another part of her can't help but feel it's all terribly unfair.

His life is about living. Her life is about surviving. 

 

 

* * *

 

It's like walking through a memory and her mind brings it all back in perfect recall. The synesthesia is nearly overwhelming, as if it's all happening as she remembers it.

The ceremony itself, though lovely, was one of those terrifically modern interfaith affairs she'd only ever read about in lifestyle magazines. She hadn't known Mary was Jewish but she suspected there was much about Mary she didn't know. Her thoroughly British sensibilities would never allow her to ask.

Secrets came part and parcel with these people she now thought of as family. She was happy enough that they returned the sentiment and was not about to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth.

Twenty odd years since that encounter in the wood behind her aunt's house finds her tromping through the wood behind the temple where her newly-minted goddaughter had just been christened and given her Hebrew name; trying to find where said goddaughter's godfather had run off to.

She groans when a twig snags a run the new silk stockings she wore beneath her navy sheath dress with the cap sleeves. Sticks snap beneath the soles of her sensible heels. The noises of a large gathering become muffled as she puts more distance and trees between herself and the Watson's celebratory outdoor luncheon. 

He catches sight of her first. Leaning against a tree with his head tilted back against a bark in the most brooding fashion, exposing the pale length of his neck.

_It does things to her._

Her stomach flips and flutters and her breaths quicken. When she thinks about it she realizes that it shouldn't feel good. But it does, and she has so many ideas of what she'd like to do about it. 

All she knows when she sees him with his messy dark brown curls tumbling over his forehead and his lips parting to puff out a stream of white smoke, is that she needs to be next to him. Taking a deep breath, she gathers her courage to walk toward him. 

His eyes narrow in her direction when she finally musters the fortitude to take that first tentative step, crackling the rushes beneath her feet. He looks worried for a brief moment, but the worry washes away when he sees in her expression that she hasn't come to lecture him for seeking isolation after his...  _display_.

John and Mary never thought he'd even be willing to make the public declaration to set an example, to turn and repent of his sins and submit to a God he did not believe in, even for the sake of ceremony. But he'd said the words, and although he had made his distaste of the "superstitious drivel" well known prior to the ritual. She knew he took his responsibility to care for and protect his goddaughter very seriously. It isn't at all his way to be publicly demonstrative. Having done so was, understandably, rattling for him.

He'd even worn the yarmulke Mary had given him for the Simchat Bat. She would never admit to him how adorable she thought he looked in it, and oddly appropriate atop his crown of dark curls.

He exhales and straightens his back, looking at her in feigned apathy, affecting all the bravado available to a lanky thirty-something year old consulting detective (which was quite a lot, incidentally).

Sometimes his genius made him seem so much wiser, so much more mature to her cleverer than average understanding. Though she suspects, she doesn't have the intuition to know, that beneath his bluster he's just a kid and doesn't know any better than she does what to do about this electricity between them. He pretends not to care and that makes her want him all the more. 

After a long moment of looking silently at each other Molly finally breaks the awkward silence with a characteristic pronouncement of the obvious, "Those aren't good for you, ya know." It's a half-hearted attempt at humor but she's had a lifelong habit of saying the wrong thing when what she really wants to do requires no words. 

He rolls his eyes and takes another drag. "Are you going to tell on me, Molly?" He's smirking at her and she can't take her eyes of of his full lips as he puts his cigarette back between them. 

"No." She says, sliding closer to him, plucking the cigarette from his mouth. "Unless you think I should." She raises an eyebrow and takes a long drag from the filter. He blinks and chuckles softly when she blows out a puff of smoke in his face.

She passes the cigarette back and leans against the tree next to him, crossing her arms over her chest. She swears she can feel her body humming with the tension of being near this man she's sure is the most beautiful man she's ever seen.

He's wearing his typical black bespoke trousers and Dior grey button-up with the top buttons undone. The knot of the tie he'd been pressed upon to wear was pulled loose and hung haphazardly around his neck in defiance of the occasion's austerity. 

She remembers a time when she used to think bad boys wore studded leather and torn denim. Now that she was an adult, she knew that the real bad boys wore suits from Savile Row and faked their deaths to outsmart criminal masterminds. And the real bad girl is the one that helps him do it.

It doesn't feel anything like she thought it would.

She doesn't feel like Sandy at the end of Grease in painted-on black lame', stomping a cigarette out under her heel. She doesn't smile the smile of a woman who knows what her body does to men, and with all the confidence of a blond ingenue, toss back her hair saying, "Tell me about it, stud."

She could, but she won't even try it because Sherlock Holmes would see through that in less time than it would take for the words to leave her mouth. But she will take solace in the company of this man, her friend, whom she has loved since first their eyes met.

 _Why does kissin' you feel so good?_  
_Even though it ain't allowed_  
_I know it damn sure should_

Cigarette dangling from his lips, he reaches for her, drawing her nearer to him by her hips while she toys with the loosened knot of his tie. Stealing the cigarette back from him, she takes the final drag before stubbing it out against the bark of the tree and flicking the filter into the dead leaves of forest floor.

"You did good today." Maybe it's silly, but she's noticed that he seems to need far more reassurance about his performance of the normal things than he does about his startling deductive leaps.

"Did I?" He asks tipping her chin up with the crook of his forefinger, nudging her up to meet his eyeline. She sees the genuine question there.

"Very." She breathes, willing all her affirmation to show in her expression.

He studies her face carefully for a long moment. His eyes steel with certainty, exhaling a short gust of breath, he leans down to press his forehead to hers. 

"Thank you, Molly." His voice a rasping whisper over her skin as he softly traces her face with his lips. 

She shivers at the sensation.

Molly's fingers find the curls of his nape as his lips find the hollow of her throat, dropping light kisses one-by-one. Sighing, her fingers tighten in his hair. She knows conventional wisdom says she shouldn't, absolutely _should not_ , let this happen again.

But his mouth lands on her pulse point and opens over the thrumming vein. When his tongue darts out to taste her there, she's lost. She reasons that there was never anything conventional about them anyway. 

It's not that it's a secret they'd slept together several times since they've known one another. It's just that they don't tell anyone. _She_ hadn't told anyone, she couldn't speak for Sherlock but she couldn't imagine that he would have told anyone. It certainly didn't seem as though John or Mary knew, who else did he have to tell? Mycroft? Hardly.

And just, why should she?

She could do without the "You deserve better" platitudes. The encouragements to force the issue with ultimatums to define, whatever this is. The pitying sighs when she inevitably indulges again. She has no use for any of it, thank you very much.

She wants him. He wants her. How much more definition does there need to be? 

None.

And with that, she's yanking at the knot in his tie, steering his face toward hers and kissing him fiercely. He opens into the kiss, finding her tongue with his impatiently. Tangling and untangling, their tongues take long practiced slides and sweeps against one another. 

He tastes of tobacco ash and butterscotch, hard candy to help him cope with his nerves over the ceremony, probably stolen from Mrs. Hudson's handbag. It's a trick she learned when she was taking her A-Levels. Eat hard candy to reduce anxiety and increases focus while sitting for exams. He was coping with the attendance of a family gathering as if it were a maths final.

God, _family_ gathering. That's what this is. Looking at the guest list, aside from the couple and the baby they made together, there was hardly a drop of shared blood among them. Yet here they were, somehow a family. All of them bound together by something other than blood... well there did tend to be an awful lot of blood involved when they all got together, but not the kind was running through anyone's veins. _Well... not anymore. Wow. Morbid, Molly. Even for you._

She wasn't sure how this had happened. Somehow this almost random assemblage of lost, broken people had found themselves beholden to one another. An entire group of people who found each other because of Sherlock Holmes, people who rely on him, believe in him. Molly could feel the pressure of that mantle weighing on him.  

That must be why he wants her now, for comfort and reassurance. She's far too pragmatic to think he's chosen her out of anything greater than convenience, though she knows he does share a certain fondness for her that he does not have for anyone else. She is a soft place for him to land and, she suspects, he hasn't had many of those in his life. That is something that continues to baffle her.

Sherlock may be an incredible prick, more often than not, but he was also capable of great kindness. She bore silent witness to that kindness for years. She could not fathom of a reality in which she did not open her arms to Sherlock Holmes when he needed her.

And he does. He needs her.

That was a comforting thought, at least. 

He breaks the kiss and strokes his open palm over the top of her head. "Molly" He whispers as his hand stops over her brow. "Hush." With a quiet, purposeful exhale she shuts her eyes and pushes all her errant thoughts away, concentrating on taking his lips until she's so far deep in the taste of him everything else is drowned out. 

It's never lost on Molly that no matter how long they go between trysts, how many partners she takes in-between, everything separating them evaporates when they touch. Nothing is hazy about their quiet intimacy. In fact, it's one of the few things she experiences in perfect clarity.

She's no longer the adolescent fumbling with a near-stranger in the woods (distant blood relation notwithstanding). She's an adult who, despite numerous disadvantages, found her way into womanhood and this man's arms. A man who had given her the closest thing to a family she could claim anymore. 

While her mouth slips from his to pay homage to his throat with nips and sucks, he bunches the hem of her dress in his large hands. Insolently propelling this, admittedly heated but otherwise perfectly casual, rendezvous into something dangerous. He's shoving the skirt of her dress up and over her arse and roughly digging his hands into the exposed flesh. Her hips jerk reflexively and his head falls back against the tree as her body shifts against the hardening ridge of his erection. He arches into her while pushing her against him once more, groaning as his cock thickens against her stomach. 

She begins to pull his shirt from where it's tucked into his trousers but gives up halfway to simply delve beneath his waistband to take him in hand. Before he's even fully in her grasp he's whirled them both around so that it's her with her back to the tree when his slides to his knees before her. A thrill ratchets up her spine as she recognizes the familiar intention in his eyes.

She can't help herself. She giggles when she sees the yarmulke still adorns his bowed head. His face snaps up in question and she giggles again. She simply traces the border of gold thread embroidered with ancient symbols. 

"God is watching." She answers sing-songy.

He grins devilishly and arches a single aristocratic brow. "Is He, now?" 

Sherlock throws one stocking-clad leg over his shoulder while he yanks the crotch of her pants over to one side, and buries his face between her thighs with little prelude to his delectable blasphemy. "Let Him watch." He says against her skin. 

He lavishes her core with intimate kisses, dipping his tongue into the depth of her before laving them upward to treat each of her folds with an expertly calculated stroke. His large hands held her in place against the tree, unyielding, giving her nowhere to escape from the sensation. She nearly collapses when he catches her clitoris with a pointed flick and swirl.

There was a heavenly contrast between sting of the tree scratching against her back and the sinful things he was doing to her cunt. She trembled as her knees gave briefly but he managed to catch her before she fell, chuckling softly against her when she righted herself. His tongue was heavy, soft and motionless as he carried it along her slit with nothing but the movement of his head. 

The hand that rested at her hip reached up to cup her breast over her clothes, kneading his fingers into her flesh roughly. Gripping her like a lifeline, as if he could hold her so tight she would meld into him. The roughness was offset by his gentle, thorough attentions with his mouth. One hand held her fast to the tree while the other roamed all over her body. Each breast in turn, then the soft plane of her belly then lower between her folds. He spread her lips further out with the scissoring of his fingers so he could circle her swollen clit with his tongue, close his lips around it, and suck.

She braved a glance down at him, his eyes shut in blissful surrender his usual worry-lined brow was passively smooth as he rhythmically sucked and swirled against the seat of her arousal. Stricken by the sight of him, she barely registered the building of her climax until his eyelids flip open to pin her with a cool, piercing gaze. 

Her orgasm erupts behind her eyes, crushing over her like a riptide. She groans and shakes apart, clawing against the bark for purchase. Her knees actually give this time but she's secured to the tree, held fast by his large hands. Her thrashes causing the bark to rake harshly against her already tender back. He raises up quickly to catch her while her mewls of completion slowly bleed into short little pained "ahs".

Sherlock tenderly strokes her back while turning them both so that it's now him leaning against the tree, adjusting so that her back is to his chest, pulling down the zipper of her dress to assess the damage. She shivers as tiny jolts of pleasure mixed with pain flicker over her while his fingertips take a precise path down her abused skin. It's almost overwhelming when she feels his hot breath take the same path, grazing her lightly with his lips. She lets her body fold forward slightly, trusting in the forearm now banded across her ribs to keep her from falling while she waited for her brain to come back online. 

Sherlock grunts. Her new position causes her bottom to press invitingly against the tented front of his trousers, she feels the arm holding her up tense while his other hand abandons her back to grip her waist. Molly presses back against him, grinding her arse into his pelvis. With the tilt of her hips she's got him in exactly the right spot to offer the best friction for them both. His breathing turns ragged as he is becoming undone by her warm core making rough passes over his straining erection.

"God, Molly!" Suddenly he's got a hand between them, pulling the hem of her dress until it's bunched up in the middle of her back. He takes a moment to admire the view. Her pale skin looks even more porcelain in comparison to the nude lace of her pants. Molly remains still, humming softly while Sherlock lightly traces his fingers along their scalloped borders then following down the curve of her bum. She hears the lowering of his zip and responds in kind by pushing down her pants as far as her garters will allow. 

"I need-" He starts to say but his train of thought is entirely derailed by her slick center pressing unhindered against his aching cock. He growls out his frustration at his inability to form a cohesive thought, he fights down the urge to merely push himself into her long enough to make the situation clear, "I know I'm merely stating the obvious but I feel I should say, I have every intention of fucking you right now, Dr. Hooper."

Cock in hand, painfully hard and shining with pre-ejaculate, he drags the exposed head of his member over her slick folds groaning as he tortures himself with teasing grazes of her wetness. She bucks against him panting desperately. "Sherlock. Sherlock please, yes-"

She isn't able to complete her request through her high pitched inward gasp as he fills her. She leans further forward to take him deeper and he hunches over her, clutching at her breasts and breathing in the smell of her hair. He bends his knees, setting himself more deeply in his haunches against the tree, pulling her up and nearly off his length before letting her fall back down on him. 

Her thighs tense, her interior walls grasping after him as he retreats from her body and plunges in again. 

He murmurs into her ear, desperate pleading words carried on hot breath. He tells her he wants her. "Let me have you. Please, I need you." He pleads. Molly just answers in a breathless cadence of "yes yes" pushing back to meet him for each agonizing thrust. 

His hands roam all over, her stomach, her breasts at one point he had her by the hair but in a show of remarkable forethought, abandoned it to spread his open hand over her throat while push-pulling her onto him by the hinge of her hips. 

Her legs are already liquid, and any rhythm they manage to establish fell apart after only a few moments. She hasn't the strength to keep up with him and he hasn't the range of motion to take them where they want to go. The next time her knees falter he guides her down on all fours onto the forest floor. 

"Is this... mmm... is this alright?" He gasps out between shallow thrusts.

Molly widened her stance and lowered her head to rest on her crossed arms. The ground is soft and loamy, carpeted with cool moss and dead leaves. It gives under her knees almost like a mattress would. Small pillars of light find their way through the shade of leaves above. Just then a cool breeze kicks up and licks against her heated cheeks and she thinks it's rather more than alright.

"Just don't stop." She pleads. 

He obeys, placing a hand on the small of her back and looping another around to toy with her clitoris. She whimpers piteously as their new angle has him sliding deep, deep down, nudging against those spaces only he seems able to find. He fucks her with superior exactitude. Rather than go mad pounding into her, he finds the place inside her that he's found, to his delight, makes her garble out feeble strings of unfinished words. Circling his hips carefully, his movements are slow and weighted with the full force of his greater body mass. Her toes curl painfully inside her shoes and her fingers dig into the soil beneath her.

She feels it building, higher and higher, to the point that's almost frightening. The sound of her rapid breathing becomes high and thready. She can feel the pressure reaching a plateau, but it's then increases the pressure of his fingers against her clit before receding from her slowly, gaining leverage for heavy thrusts that send her over the edge again. She seizes around his cock, her muscles pulled taut with the force of her orgasm. Shaking and wailing, she turns her head to muffle her cries into her shoulder.

Sherlock doesn't let up. He continues to fuck Molly through her climax. Sweat pours from his brow and falls in cold drops against her raw back. The salt stings in her tender skin but she can't find it in her to be bothered by it.

Suddenly, he's pulling away and she feels his cheek against the middle of her back, trembling and groaning out a long "unnnnnhhh" as he comes onto the dirt between her knees. 

Catching his breath, he continues to rest his head against her back while hitching his trousers back up and tucking himself away. He slumps down onto the ground. Sitting against the tree, he gathers her into his lap, panting against her hair.

Relaxed and boneless Molly lays her head on his shoulder smiling weakly as he drops light kisses to her temple and laces his fingers with hers. He squeezes hard, as if he expects a strong gale to kick up and blow them apart. It's frightening in it's intimacy so Molly shuts her eyes and squeezes back, hiding her face in his neck. 

  
  
_Why does holding hands feel so right?_  
_Got a bruise on my pinky ring from holding too tight_

 

Ages pass, but perhaps those were merely breaths. The daylight is greying slightly but that could just be from the weight of her eyelids becoming heavier. Something buzzes underneath Molly, jerking her from her trance. Sherlock shifts his hand underneath her, drawing out his mobile. 

"Text from John." He announces. 

"Back to reality." Molly says with a slightly dejected sigh.

Sherlock favors her with a confused glance. "And you suppose this isn't reality?"

"I can't have nice things." She answers, rising to put herself back together, "Case in point." She huffs gestures to the ruined knees of her fine silk stockings while reaching under her dress to unclasp them from her garters and roll them off. He joins her, tucking his shirttails into his waist before doing up his trousers and zipping her up while she's bent down.

Sherlock clears his throat. "Sorry." He says just barely above a whisper.

She stills for a moment then straightens and looks at him, head down, unwilling to look her in the eyes. She caresses his cheek that's just beginning to become rough with the day's stubble. "Don't be." Molly raises on her toes to press a kiss to his jaw. "You're one of the nice things I can't have."

His eyes widen and he looks at her, grasping her by the elbows, keeping her close as he says, "I'm not nice, Molly."

Molly smiles softly. "No. I suppose you're not. But I don't mind."

Sherlock straightened running his hands up the length of her arms, stopping at her shoulders, holding her gaze. "Then by your own admission you can."   

"Can what, Sherlock?" her voice is gentle but her question is genuine.

"Have me." He clarifies.  

Her heart leaps into her throat and she swallows against the pressure forming there. "I can?" She isn't sure if she even spoke aloud, her voice is so demure, so uncertain.

"You can." He affirmed but amended, "You do. You shouldn't want to, but you do. So, for as long as you insist on being unreasonable you may... have me, that is. Until such a time as you find your better judgement."

Tears sting in the corners of her eyes and she tamps down the urge to smile like a fool. "And what if I never do?"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches up but something gives and his lips stretch wide in one of his startlingly warm smiles despite himself. "More's the pity for you. But all the better for me."

She wipes the smug smile from his face with a breath stealing kiss that he matches and exceeds in fervor. When it finally ends she tries to smooth down his obvious just-been-fucking hair but only makes it stand up higher and frizzier. "Sorry" She giggles. He looks up as if he can see the top of his own head and sighs. 

"Learning to twist and diffuse is just another of the innumerable burdens of having me." He says as he smirks. 

Molly rolls her eyes and links arms with him. "Come along you vain thing. We have a party to get back to."

Arm in arm, they go to join the others, navigating the wood together. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> *GIANT HEAVING SIGH* It feels SO good to finally be finished with this! It may not be much but I toiled on this beast for a full month! It's one of the more awkward reasons on the list and I did take liberties with it a bit but like I said, it's a super awkward one.


End file.
